


every breath we drew

by can_i_get_a_wahoo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), First Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), One In The Morning, but i'd die for these two, i wrote this in a feverish state at like, kind of a smut, not really - Freeform, post-notpocalypse, so enjoy my attempts at serious writing, so it's messy, there's also a lot of fire metaphors kind of i don't really know, this is kind of a mess, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 18:36:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/can_i_get_a_wahoo/pseuds/can_i_get_a_wahoo
Summary: popular opinion tells us that hell is a raging inferno. this is incorrect. hell, at its very core, is cold, a damp, dark, freezing place, which makes more sense anyways because hell is the opposite of heaven, and heaven is built on the idea of love, and love, as we all know, is the warmest thing that exists on this earth.or, crowley decides that some things are worth burning up for.





	every breath we drew

**Author's Note:**

> this is. a lot?? i don't know??? i wanted to play with the idea of there being this fear between these two. a fear that tells them that, if they ever actually touch each other, they'll destroy each other with the basic opposite-ness of their natures. that doesn't really make sense. whatever. i wrote this and then immediately posted it because if i read over it too much i'd pussy out, oops lmao. i do hope you enjoy!

Whoever said hell is an inferno was _quite_ incorrect. 

(Testaments old and new toss around phrases such as “unquenchable fire”, and these motifs, while certainly an entertaining notion, could not be further from the truth. Then again, this could be said for quite a few things tossed around in testaments old and new.)

Let’s get one thing straight right off: hell, at its very core, is cold. Which, if one takes a moment to ponder that fact, makes more sense anyways. Holiness is _love_ , and having faith in that love, and believing that somewhere, a higher being has love for _you_. That love is the warmest thing that exists. Love _burns_. And, of course, hell is the opposite of holy — or, by this definition, the furthest possible thing from the warmth of true love. 

Hell is freezing, and empty, and dark. It follows, then, that demons positively abhor fire. (The exception here is hellfire, which, in a rather oxymoronic fashion, isn’t actually fire, but is something that exists at such freezing temperatures that it burns and blackens anything it touches.) 

_This_ is the danger holy water poses to such icily-inclined individuals. 

Holy water burns the damned with the heat it possesses. 

Hellfire destroys the holy with its frigid cruelty.

If a simple splash of blessed water can scorch a demon from the inside out, imagine, then, what could result from the clashing of two individuals on opposite ends of heaven and hell. 

Crowley’s dilemma was this:

His complete and total destruction was a very real possibility, if he didn’t execute some level of self control. (This notion is ridiculous even _without_ any added difficulties. Everything a demon stands for goes against the idea of self control.)

But he's _blessed_ if destruction doesn’t seem so _bloody_ tempting at the moment. 

They’ve just returned from a marvelous lunch at the ritz. The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon, and Aziraphale stops mid-step, turning his face to the west. The breeze seems to sigh contentedly in tandem with the angel, and a nightingale sings a throaty song just beyond where they’ve stopped. 

He thinks, fleetingly, of seeing the angel’s profile in much a similar way, though under far more somber circumstances, decades ago. How _sad_ he seemed, in the neon lights of Soho. _Maybe one day we can go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz._

Well, they’d checked that off. He wonders idly if he still goes too fast. 

They hail a taxi, and Crowley suddenly remembers that he’d offered to let Aziraphale stay at his place. 

A mistake, surely.

He’d said it on impulse, but now he’s thinking about it, it’s sure to be torture. Being in the same space as the other for that long. Being so near to something so beautifully forbidden. 

For six thousand _bloody_ years, he’d wanted nothing more than to _touch_ his angel — card his fingers through those disgustingly perfect curls, cup his face in his hands, kiss his jawline, his eyelids, _everywhere_ he could reach. It’d mean death, surely — no, worse than death, but Satan help him, he's sure nothing can be worse than this centuries-old ache, of being so damn _far_.

The taxi lets them off. Aziraphale keeps up a steady stream of chatter through the stroll to Crowley's building, talking gleefully of all the little wonders the world still holds for him — Crowley’s heart twists as the angel halts on the front stoop and points at the sky, noting the clouds and exclaiming how _perfect_ it would be if it were to rain. 

And then it does begin to rain, as though the sky heard Aziraphale’s vague wish, and Aziraphale turns his gaze to Crowley, and the angel has never looked happier, never looked more absolutely divine, and Crowley thinks, _fuck. this._

He is soft, at first, braced for the inevitable shockwave of agonizing fire, but after a breathless eternity, he realizes that the only thing he can feel is Aziraphale’s lips against his own. The angel seems frozen, so he pulls back hurriedly, an apology curling around his tongue. Aziraphale doesn’t let him finish saying the words before closing the distance between them once more, their lips not so much meeting, but _crashing._

The kiss bruises, and it aches, and it’s hard and sloppy and fucking heavenly, but it doesn’t burn. Not in the way Crowley expected it to. Maybe it isn’t accurate to say that it doesn’t burn, because it does, but it’s not all-consuming; it’s nice, and it’s _hot_ , and fuck, he might be in love. 

Aziraphale shifts slightly back, hands still gripping the lapels of Crowley’s jacket. “Was — I’m sorry, is this alright?” the angel whispers, voice raw. 

_It’s more than alright. This is all I’ve wanted for centuries. Millennia. Don’t you see, angel, it’s you, it’s always been you and it’s always going to be you, and I’ve loved you so much for so long I thought it might kill me_ , Crowley thinks.

He doesn’t say it. Instead, he murmurs, “It’s alright. We’re alright.” He lands a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth as he says it, and Aziraphale shudders. He lets his mouth wander for a moment, exploring the (somehow, at once) soft and sharp curves of the angel’s chin, his throat. 

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale rasps. He lurches backwards, against the door, fumbling for the handle, muttering, “It’s — wet. Inside, we should —”

Crowley, with some effort, straightens up, rakes a hand through his hair, and snaps his fingers, too impatient to climb the stairs to his flat that wait beyond the door. The pair find themselves, slightly damp, in the much more suitable environment of Crowley’s sitting room, and it doesn’t take long for Aziraphale to collapse onto a sofa, pulling the demon down with him. 

It still burns, just a bit. The flames coiling in Crowley’s stomach feel so _blessedly_ good. 

Aziraphale’s hands are shaking, but sure, and Crowley doesn’t mind letting the angel be in control — he’s happy to move in the direction those hands push, happy to oblige the angel’s frantically whined commands of, “ _Fuck, there, don’t you fucking dare stop._ ” 

A sudden though strikes him, through the haze of desire currently fogging his head, a nagging sense of anxiety. He still isn't entirely sure that the two of them, _together_ in such a way, wouldn't be disastrous for everyone involved. _What if this kills us?_

He pauses, just before, and props himself up on his palms. “Angel, are you sure about this?” he asks, brushing a stray bit of hair out of Aziraphale’s face. 

“You’re waiting until _now_ to ask me if i’m sure?” Aziraphale scoffs, laughter in his eyes. “My dear, I’ve been sure for six thousand odd years now. _Yes_ , Crowley, I’m _sure_.”

Aziraphale is so beautiful, Crowley thinks he might cry. 

They collide, harsher than before, and then they are moving together, finding a steady, aching rhythm, clutching at each other — anchors in the ineffable storm crashing around their ears. Crowley thinks this might be the closest he’ll ever get to sanctity. To _salvation_. Because it is, in its own way, salvation. The two lose themselves in each other, erasing the other’s sins which each breath, creating their own sort of paradise between them. 

They are not an angel and a demon, not now. They are their own entity entirely, on a side all their own. 

It is fast, it is rough, and it is perfect — over in an instant, one serendipitous instant that has Crowley on the brink of tears. ( _Embarrassingly quick_ , he thinks once it’s done, _like a bloody teenager_.) He feels a bit drunk, unable to do much other than slump exhaustedly into the sofa cushions, and he’s sure Aziraphale experiences something to that effect, too, because the angel doesn’t say anything for several moments, just buries his head into the crook of Crowley’s neck and breathes. 

He recalls, once, being told that to love was the ultimate torture for the damned. Their souls were cold, and love was an unbearable inferno. Love could tear a soul into smithereens if you weren’t careful.

Aziraphale’s mouth settles at Crowley’s ear, mumbling “I love you,” over and over, as though he is making up for so many missed opportunities to say it in the past. 

And Crowley is sure of one of two things: either they’ve got it wrong, all wrong, down below, or maybe he isn’t quite as damned as he thought he was.

**Author's Note:**

> i think sometimes i take myself too seriously, and this is an example of that. but yknow, that's okay! i love these characters with my whole heart and this was fun to write, so, if it's way off-base, then, whatever, yknow?? this is also the first time i've posted on ao3 since i deleted a bunch of my other works after realizing they were problematic/generally bad so uh,,whatta way to make a comeback amiright,,,,i'll shut up now but thanks for reading friends  
> EXCEPT IM NOT DONE WAIT come say hey on tumblr y'all @ slut-for-a-good-latte


End file.
